


Take Me Out (To The Ballgame)

by n_nami



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Politics, Baseball player Jensen, Closeted Character, Coming Out, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, M/M, politician Misha, technically enemies to fwb to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29938644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_nami/pseuds/n_nami
Summary: Things need to change - for himself, and the city of St. Louis, Misha decides when he chooses to run for mayor. He doesn't know just how much they will change when Jensen Ackles, famous Shortstop of the Cardinals, joins him for a charity event.
Relationships: Danneel Harris/Vicki Vantoch, Jensen Ackles/Misha Collins
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For my dear trash pandas over at the [Profound Bond Discord Server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) and the prompt:  
> AU. Major League Baseball star Jensen Ackles has to team up with local politician Misha Collins to promote Misha's elementary school healthy eating program. Jensen is jaded and suspicious of politicians, while Misha is wary of jocks, but both men soon realize they underestimated the other in more ways than one.
> 
> Also a big shoutout to Banshee for betaing and badrituals for leaving this prompt <3

The sun is standing high in the sky over Busch Stadium, and Misha squints at the Arc rising and falling in the distance as he states, calm and collected to an audience consisting of his best friend, and only him, “I'm going to be the next mayor of St. Louis.” Then he adjusts his aviators on his nose.

Darius nods his head side to side, one edge of his lips tilting down as he rubs his hands over his face. “Funny enough, that's not the most out-there idea you've ever pitched to me,” he chuckles. “Also, what, 'alderman' now too shabby for you?”

Misha shrugs, leans back to sprawl over the seats, legs crossed with his ankle on his knee. “Not really. I'd be fine with being alderman for another term or two. But, you know. Gotta have goals in life. I want to change things in this city.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Good. Charming fucker like you, totally capable of pulling that off.”

“Thanks, appreciate the encouragement.”

They sit there, on the second deck, for a while, just thinking. Misha notices Darius' eyes flickering all over the place, to the players practicing on the field below, over him, into the sky. “You're gonna need sponsors, funds. Of course, I'm going to help out where I can--”

“Darius--”

Darius shushes him. “No. I'm going to. We've known each other since what, forever? It won't fall back onto the club or anything. Not that-- wait,” he interrupts himself, tapping his chin. “One, I don't think the club would have any issues whatsoever with your campaign, you're as blue as St. Louis gets, anyway. Two, since I am your childhood friend, and that's easy to find out, it might be better if there's someone else who's more neutral and whose credentials would mean more.”

Misha studies him. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying, let me poke around the team if there are some millionaires willing to spend a few bucks.”

“I don't know if I--” Misha breaks off, crumbles under Darius' glare for once. He doesn't know if he wants that -- if it isn't too close to nepotism. But at this point, both the campaign and the idea are still fresh and untouched and still waiting to form, waiting to be formed. Everything is possible, and he shouldn't shut doors out of false pride. 

He does that. Misha knows he does that. Darius knows it, too.

So Misha sighs instead, and tries again. “So I've had this idea of building a food program for the local elementary schools. Not all parents can afford a healthy, balanced diet and with a few sponsors and some volunteers, we could totally make it work. It'd be a good place to announce that I'll run for mayor, too, but it doesn't need to be about that.”

“I like it,” Darius nods after considering it. “I do. I'm sure you'll find another guy on the team, besides me, who's willing to support a good, no strings attached cause like this. Jared would be in in a heartbeat, I'm sure. He's all about that, has supported various charities over the years. And there's that new guy. We got him in trade a week ago, just before the trade deadline...” he trails off, looks at Misha like he expects him to get it.

Misha doesn't get it.

“Oh c'mon? You didn't hear? Our big acquisition this season?”

“Do I look like I read baseball news?” Misha throws back.

“Your best friend is the starting second baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals, yes, I would think so?”

With a shrug, Misha grins at him. “Nope.”

Darius throws his hands up, slaps them onto his thighs. “Ok, promise to not judge that book by its cover, okay,” Darius starts, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He points down at the field. “Shortstop.”

Unimpressed, Misha looks from the field to Darius and back.

“Really?” Darius shakes his head, but he can't help but chuckle. “Ok, infield. You see the pitcher's mound, or do I need to explain to you that the pitcher is the one who throws the ball?”

“I know what the pitcher does.” Misha flips him off. “Heard enough pitcher-catcher jokes in my time, thank you.”

Darius grins. “Ok, so, left of the pitcher. Between second and third base. A bit into the outfield. You see him?”

Misha sees a red cap, reflecting sunglasses and a beard, that's it.

“Jensen Ackles,” Darius announces the name like it means something. “Arguably in the top three of defensive shortstops in all of Major League Baseball. Came to us from the Colorado Rockies. I don't know him that well yet, but he seems alright. Just don't get distracted by his pretty face.”

“Like I was ever going to--”

Darius interrupts him with a snort.

Misha gives in. “Fine. I may be easily distracted. But this is business, right, so don't underestimate my ability to compartmentalize.”

“I'm just saying. You know, there's locker room talk and then there's _locker room talk._ If Matt wasn't as straight as an arrow, he'd just about drop to his knees for him. He has such a non-sexual mancrush on the dude it's almost funny.”

“Matt...?”

Darius rolls his eyes. “Cohen. Center Field.”

“Ah.”

“I'll make something happen and introduce you two. Anyway, what else do you have planned once you're the mayor?”

“Well, we're in desperate need of a homeless shelter, there's the youth center that could use a renovation and there's the closed soup kitchen.”

Darius laughs. “Woah, you might dial it back on the socialist propaganda there, Collins.”

“Never,” Misha deadpans.

“Well then. I know it's still early but we have a game later and I need to get some batting practice in. You coming down or what?”

“Down where?”

“The seats behind the dugout.”

Misha shrugs, then follows Darius down to field level, where they have to bid their goodbyes.

The players are milling about in their practice jerseys, laughing in the dugout, and Misha notices quite a few fans gathered on the seats above the bullpen across the field, where the catchers and pitchers are having their last practice session before the game. The constant shouting must be unnerving, he finds himself thinking. And yet, when there's a player talking to them or throwing a ball over, the fans sit down and go back to watching grown men throw balls back and forth like it's art or something.

Misha huffs.

That's when several shouts in multiple renditions of “Hey, Darius!” “My man!” can be heard. They make Misha peek around the edge of the railing hiding the dugout from sight. There's some friendly hazing going on and one of the slimmer guys on the team looks completely out of place, his arm around Darius' shoulder and barely able to hold on.

Darius steps out and turns around to look for him. Not wanting to draw too much attention, Misha waves at him, hoping that Darius would just--

“Yo, guys, look who's here! Hey, Mish!”

“Hey,” Misha says to no one in particular, too quiet to be heard by the players on the field.

The thing is, Misha probably knows all of them by name, but he has no face to put to that. Darius talks about them all the time. But for him, they are just red and white figurines moving across a screen, or even less distinguishable when he sees a game live – the big pictures on the media wall notwithstanding. It's not like he pays much attention when he's at the stadium. He has texts and emails to answer and three friggin' hours for a game, he can't waste daylight like that. So yes, he spends games - whenever Darius makes him sit through one, trying to make Misha love his sport - with his nose in his phone.

He has never been that close to the team, though, and the numbers on their backs are no clue either, but when one of them turns around, he recognizes last names.

Olsson, that's Ty. From what Darius says, he's reliable, laid back, the guy responsible for the alcohol after a win, the one to bust out a funny one-liner after an evening of saying nothing.

There's Alex Calvert, the rookie, who replaced that one dude they were all salty about because the team he got traded to played in the World Series for the championship title.

Cohen... ah, yes, Matt. Friendly, always smiling, apparently having a huge mancrush on the new guy. Misha watches him throw his head back as Darius talks to him.

The other guy hanging around them has a face as generic as it gets, and Misha can't see the name on his back.

There's someone in the batting cages, nets around him designed to catch the balls that aren't hit. In all capital white lettering on his back, Misha reads 'ACKLES'. Right as he looks over, Ackles hits a ball deep into the left field stands, where fans scramble to pick it up from between the rows of not yet occupied seats.

Then the guy turns around as Darius hollers over, telling him to switch with him. He takes his cap off and wipes his glove over his forehead.

And Darius wasn't wrong. Even from the distance, Misha can see how pretty this guy is. Especially when he grins at Darius, showing rows of even teeth.

There's a shout to his right, and at the end of his row of seats, a young woman is shouting from the top of her lungs to get Ackles' attention.

Without hesitation, he bends over to grab one of the balls that had landed in the net behind him and tosses it over to her with a wink. She just about faints, grabs her shirt, and Misha interprets her wild gesturing as the question if he'd sign her boobs.

Ackles shouts back, “Sorry, no pen!”

But his expression, smug and entirely... well. The  _audacity_ . Misha snorts.

Fucking jocks. Selfish, vain, superficial. But what else is new.

***  
  
Which is why, when Darius brings it up at their post-game dinner, Misha is speechless.

“So how about it, then?” he asks, “Grab the new guy, convince him of your program. It's a win-win situation.”

“What, you mean Ackles?”

“Yeah,” Darius nods, stuffs his mouth with salad and talks through it. Not the worst Misha has ever seen of him. “He's new, he needs a rep within the city, show how well-integrated and invested he is in the community. It's good press for the club - we’re encouraged to support social programs and stuff. And you'd have a big name in your book already.”

Looking down at his mushroom risotto, Misha almost drops his fork. He sets it down with a too-loud clatter, instead.

“C'mon. Mish. He's not a bad guy.”

Misha fixes Darius with a nonplussed stare. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah! He's funny, most of the guys like him already. He has some history with Jarpad and the two have an amazing energy in the clubhouse,” Darius gestures, fork and salad notwithstanding.

Misha sighs. “Dare, I barely know Padalecki. I've met him once or twice, by chance, in a hallway. He's not exactly a point of reference for me.”

“Then take my word for it,” Darius insists. “Or, you know, drop in on our PR lady. I'll give you her number, and then you'll see what she says. Tell her I'm in, for starters.”

Shaking his head, Misha resumes eating with a funny feeling in his stomach. They evade the topic for the rest of the evening.

***  
  
Jensen is busy vacuuming his apartment when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

At first, he dismisses it as a phantom ring or a message.

Then it vibrates again. And again.

Sighing, Jensen takes his finger off the switch of his cordless vacuum and fumbles the phone out of his jeans pocket.

Samantha Smith.

PR?

What does PR want from him?

“Hi, Samantha,” he greets her, puts on a smile.

“Jensen, hey,” she says, sounding neutral and Jensen is _irked_ right off the bat. “So I've got Jeff here--”

What is Jeffrey doing in her office? What is going on?

He's not being traded. He can't be. The trade deadline is gone, passed, over, and he has a no-trade clause in his contract now. His agent made sure of that. Even though he has to admit that this trade seems to have worked in his favor. The team seems alright, he gets to work with Jared again, which is always a plus. But he also just settled in at the clubhouse.

He's not being fired or suspended or taken out of the roster, is he? Can they do that? Would they?

_Why_ would they?

“Hello, Jensen,” Jeffrey Dean Morgan, the club's general manager, throws in. So Jensen's on speaker.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Hi, Jeff. What's up?”

“We have an idea we'd like you to consider,” Samantha takes over. “We've been approached by a member of the city council for a collaboration, a sponsorship for an elementary school food program.”

“Great,” Jensen says, honestly. And what does that have to do with him, he wonders.

Jeff is the one to speak next, and Jensen can just about picture him, fingers running over his stubbled chin. They don't see their GM all that often, busy doing front office stuff and all. So this is a serious matter if he is involved. “I spoke to upper management about this and we all agree it's a good opportunity. The city council, or rather, the alderman organizing it, already put the program together; they have the volunteers and the infrastructure to pull it off. He thinks we could profit from the publicity and we agree.”

“Money is not an issue here; whether you personally want to add to the program is, of course, up to you,” Sam adds. “The club is already sponsoring the program as it is.”

“But,” Jeff intercepts, and Jensen sits down on his sofa. “If we're doing this for publicity and for image reasons, we need to add faces to that. We've already been told that Darius Marder is in, as one of our veterans, but we think it'd be a great opportunity for you to make a name for yourself in St. Louis, too.”

Jensen swallows. “Okay,” he nods. “So who is this guy and what would this entail for me?”

Sam is the one who answers him. “Nothing too much. A volunteer visit in your free time at one of the schools partaking in the program, some photos and autographs, some lines for the paper which will of course be prepared by us.”

“Just show up, hand out some food, smile for the press, and take some cute pictures,” Jeff adds.

Rubbing his forehead, Jensen considers the proposal. There has to be a catch. Their arguments are, of course, solid, but something's going on, right? If politicians are involved, then something like this sounds too good to be true. There's always a catch with these things.

“Where's the catch?” he asks, outright.

“None, as far as we could determine,” Samantha says, and she does sound honest. It soothes Jensen's nerves some. “It most likely plays into the fact that there's the general municipal elections coming up next year, but that shouldn't and doesn't concern us. It's a good cause; we've looked into it, the organization is stable and well-managed. We can fully stand behind this, even if someone decides to use it as a steppingstone for the elections.”

Jensen shakes his head, bites his lip. It can't be that easy, right? “Who's this alderman? The one who's in charge of this?”

“His name is Misha Collins,” Jeff says. “Democrat. Serving his second term as the alderman of the 5th ward. He's young, he has a good reputation, and yes, he's probably looking to make a name for himself for the upcoming election and all – but he couldn't be less controversial. Does a lot of charity stuff, and he's popular. It's pretty much a given that he'll serve at least another term.”

Okay. So Jensen will need to look this guy up. “Hey, can I, um. Think about this? Maybe talk to Darius first?”

“Of course,” Sam says.

“But I won't sugarcoat this, Jensen,” Jeff speaks up, with a tone of finality. “It's a golden opportunity. We want you to take this. If you have good reasons to opt out, let us know, and we'll consider it. But we really want you to step up here and be a part of St. Louis; not only the team, but also the city and the community. We'd like to keep you.”

“Thanks, Jeff,” Jensen answers, trying to sort his thoughts into whether he should feel threatened or take it as a compliment. Both, probably.

After a few meaningless pleasantries, they hang up.

Jensen lets his head fall against the backrest of his sofa and stares at the ceiling.

He thinks about his Dad, always having some sort of sign in their front yard. Thinks about his Mom, rallying even when she was with her friends. Swallows, closes his eyes at the things he was never meant to hear.

Fuck, he hates politicians.

He gets his laptop to look up the guy on the city's homepage. According to his bio, he's a bit older than Jensen, went to college in Chicago. With that smile and those blue eyes, it's no wonder he got this far in politics at his age, Jensen thinks. Pretty boy who can talk his way around everything, he bets. With a huff, he puts the laptop away and finishes cleaning his apartment to take his mind off things.

Jensen fiddles with his phone after that, which turns out to be pointless. Facebook doesn't help, because of course this Collins guy has a social media presence, too, and Jensen spends way too much time stalking him. Reads about Thanksgiving last year, where he apparently helped out at a soup kitchen, smiling for the camera. He's handsome, Jensen will give him that. His Twitter is a mess of local and state level politics, some personal messages and pictures thrown in.

It doesn't take Jensen's mind off things.

***  
  
Jensen manages to get a hold of Darius while they're still getting their gear and jerseys on before the game. “Darius, you got a minute?”

“Sure, what's up?” Darius asks, halfway through putting his jersey on, slinging it across his shoulders.

“I wanted to talk to you about the school food program--”

“Oh!” Darius grins that big smile of his. “Yeah. Great idea, isn't it?”

“Yeah, um, so. The guy who's running it, you know him?”

“Misha? Absolutely. He's been my best friend for years.”

Jensen swallows.

Shit.

So Darius isn't exactly a neutral party here.

_Shit._

“It's a great cause, isn't it? I think it's awesome, what he's doing, so I'll gladly support it.”

Jensen hums, avoids his eyes. “Hm. Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“Just... politics,” Jensen sighs. “Hate to get involved in that.”

Darius nods. “Understandable, but you really don't need to worry. I'd sell one of my kidneys for the guy, he's got his heart in the right place. Hey, how about…” Darius interrupts himself, taps his finger against his chin. “How about I set something up and you just meet him, how's that sound? I bet you two hit it off. Then you can still make your decision if you want in on the program or not.”

“About that,” Jensen winces, busies himself with buttoning his jersey. “Jeff made it clear in no uncertain terms that I was expected to.”

Grimacing in sympathy, Darius turns away to grab his phone. “Sorry. But, really. Don't worry. There's nothing to worry about.”

Jensen just hopes he's right.

“You free after the game?” Darius asks, already tapping into his phone.

Jensen shrugs and pulls his cap over his head. “Sure.”

***  
  
They win, 6 to 4, and Jensen got to make the winning double play to end the 9 th inning. He's still grinning about that when he leaves the stadium with Darius. Feels good; being productive, seeing results.

That high is still fueling his adrenaline as they sit down at the restaurant Darius picked. Apparently, he had booked a table for two, but upgrading wasn't an issue.

Jensen watches the door as it opens and gives way to dark, artfully swiped hair, and a generic dude in a black suit. If he hadn't seen a picture of him, Jensen wouldn't recognize him.

He tips his chin up and squares his shoulders. 

So the picture he saw of him on the internet was probably a bit older, maybe from right after he was elected. There's no youthful curl to his lips anymore. Instead there's stubble on high cheekbones, and cool, electric blue eyes focusing on him. Up close and personal, he's gorgeous.

In literally any other situation, Jensen would hit on him so hard it'd make Misha's head spin.

But this is not a gay club, he's being professional for professional reasons; and after all, there's the whole politics thing, even though Misha has a lot of good arguments going on. So Jensen swallows it down, for now.

Getting to his feet, Jensen feels almost underdressed in his light blue button-down and jeans. He offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, I'm Jensen Ackles,” he nods his head.

“Misha Collins,” the guy says, in an entirely too-pleasant voice, warm and rough around the edges. “Nice to meet you, too.”

It's a bit stiff and stilted, in that way first meetings tend to be. Misha tries to hide it, but he's checking Jensen out head to toe, admittedly very subtle, and Jensen has no intention to stop him. 

“Hi, Mish,” Darius says, smiling from ear to ear as he hugs Misha. Full-on, arms around each other's neck. No manly back-slaps involved here, but then again, Misha is probably not used to the machoism going on in locker rooms; and Darius is a hugger, as Jensen already noticed.

They sit down in silence, studying their menu, and Jensen is the first to put his down.

“So,” Darius tries to break the tension, putting his down as well.

“So,” Misha echoes, and for whatever reason, that grates on Jensen's nerves. “I hear you are supporting my elementary school food program?” he asks, towards Jensen.

“Not yet,” Jensen answers, cool as you please. He won't show his cards yet, thank you. “I'm considering it. Wanted to meet you first.”

“I vouched for you,” Darius throws in towards Misha. “But I'm sure that you two will get along just fine, so.”

Jensen glares into the table. How he hates these assumptions.

“So, red or blue?” he asks, just to be a little shit. Pretending like he didn't read up on him. Pretending like he has no idea about politics.

Misha smiles, and it looks almost condescending. “Very, very blue.”

Jensen chuckles, soundless, flat. “Just so you know, I hate politicians,” he says, to get that out there.

“Well, I hate jocks,” Misha returns without missing a beat, leveling him with a stare.

“You're best friends with Darius.”

“He was my friend before he even threw his first baseball.”

Jensen shrugs, but doesn't back down. “Which should tell you that we aren't all assholes, but who'm I talking to. Only a-holes in politics.”

“What's your beef with that?”

“Grew up in Texas, parents were registered, good old Republicans since forever.”

Why is he even bothering to explain this - it's not like it matters. He's here to play baseball and represent the club.

“I see,” Misha nods, and Jensen can't stand the _tone_ of him. This pretending to understand when he doesn't. 

He huffs. “So, did you see the game today?”

That's when Darius clears his throat and Jensen may or may not have completely forgotten about him. “It was a friggin’ fantastic game, did you see our double play in the 9 th ?”

Misha tries to smile an apology at both of them. “I was there today, yes, but I... sorry. I think that slipped by me.”

How did that slip by him? It was the end of the game, the last out; it was important and the people in the stands were roaring as it happened? Jensen can only shake his head in disbelief.

“Did you answer your e-mails during the game again?” Darius scolds him, then turns to Jensen with an exasperated sigh. “He does that.”

“Maybe,” Misha hedges.

Jensen frowns at that. “Do you even like baseball?”

“Nope. Not a sports guy. Never was. My dad always tried to take me out to a game as something special every once in a while, for my birthday or something. He was also very disappointed that I didn't enjoy it as much as he would like me to. Like, 'what boy doesn't enjoy a ball game?'” He mimics the latter in a mock-pitched-up voice.

“Then why are you even bothering with us, with this?” Jensen fumes, inwardly. “Maybe if you want to collaborate with a ball club you should have a vague interest in the sport, don't you think?”

Darius jumps to Misha's defense. “That was my idea, actually,” he mutters.

Jensen wonders why this is so weird.

He likes Darius, he's a teammate and a good player and they work very well on the field.

He studies Misha and comes up short. Objectifying him is easy, he's a beautiful guy. Intense eyes, kissable lips. These thoughts are dangerous and completely inappropriate, and Jensen knows he shouldn't.

Misha stares right back at him, fierce and determined and not backing down. His dark blue tie matches his eyes and Jensen can't imagine what he thinks of him.

“What do you want to know about the program?” Misha asks him, and his expression is neutral, deliberately so. He doesn't give anything away.

Oh, what Jensen would give to hear the guy's thoughts. He squints at him. “Do you want to serve another term as alderman next year?” he asks back.

The whiplash makes Misha blink and hesitate, and Jensen smirks, only to himself. “Yes, I'd like to.”

“And the school program--”

“Factors into that, but it's not the sole reason,” Misha brushes it off. “So are you going to do it?”

Jensen snorts, unamused. “I'm kind of expected to. So, yes.”

With a single, tight lipped nod, Misha breaks eye contact.

Jensen feels like he's finally coming up for air. That dude is way too intense.

The server comes over to take their drink order and it's a much-needed pause in their tense conversation. Darius is, uncharacteristically, silent through it. He seems almost shellshocked.

“What do I have to do for you to trust me?” Misha asks, straight to Jensen's face, when their server is up and away.

A humorless laugh breaks out of Jensen as he leans back. “Don't strain yourself. I'll do the program, smile a bit for the camera, get in, get out, and you'll never hear from me again. I won't get into the mess that is this political charade.”

Misha shrugs. “Okay, sure. Whatever works for you.”

They part shortly after a stilted and mostly silent dinner.

***  
  
Misha groans a long-suffering groan on their way to his car. “Does it need to be him?”

Darius sighs, too. “Management insists. I didn't know he would be... like this. I mean. He's a nice guy, I swear.”

Misha rolls his eyes.

“Sorry,” Darius says, dejected.

“Not your fault he's being a dick about this.”

“I suggested him to Samantha,” Darius admits.

“Well, you were right in one part,” Misha chuckles, self-depreciating, “He is pretty. Gonna look good in pictures.” 

He rubs his eyes.

Darius gets into the passenger seat after Misha unlocks the doors of his Audi.

Staring into the wall he parked next to, Misha sighs. “If I only knew what his problem with me was.”

“He doesn't like politics.”

Misha frowns.

“Maybe he’s having gay panic because of you,” Darius chuckles. “Wouldn't be the first guy you 'turned', either.”

With a glare, Misha shuts him up. “Yeah, right. Like there's a snowball's chance in hell that a gay baseball player exists outside of a closet. Like he'd admit it even if he was. That's bullshit,” he grumbles, more venom in his voice than he'd like to admit.

Darius looks at him for a long time, watches him turn the key in the ignition and put the car in reverse.

“Holy shit,” is what he ends up saying.

“What?” Misha replies.

“You like him, Mish.”

“No, I really don't,” Misha deadpans, backing out onto the road.

Darius smirks in that know-it-all way that drives Misha bonkers. “Oh, yes, you do. Those lips turn even the straightest dudes gay in close proximity. Hey, not my words - Matt's . And it's not like you're even straight.”

That has Misha snorting.

“I know you, okay. I know your type, I know how long it has been since you--”

“Can we just drive home, please? And discuss, I don't know, the weather?” 

Darius backs off and they drive home in silence. Because the weather is just dreary, clouded, uneventful and not-hot-not-cold September weather.

Which, unfortunately, only gives Misha time to think. With his sixty-hour-weeks and appointments on weekends, there's not much spare time in his life. Like, none. He has hobbies, of course, goes running and... well, running. There's no time for a partner. Or going out, or going on dates. 

And then there's the fact that he's not sure if the city is ready for their first bisexual mayor. It is kind of a given to leave that out of the campaign. For obvious reasons.

But then again... Jensen Ackles.

Green eyes, built like a Greek god, straighter than any of them; because he's an arrogant jock, because he's a millionaire paid even more millions to hit balls with a stick, no pun intended. As someone who dedicated his life to make the world a better place for the less fortunate, it boggles Misha's mind. But he only gets validated time and time again: the pretty ones are assholes, or straight, or both.

Jensen Ackles also has freckles, so fuck him in particular.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time: Jensen and Misha meet, but it's not love at first sight, and poor Darius gets in the middle of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the games begin!

“Sam, I can't do this,” Jensen says, convincing absolutely no one. He's whining and he's pathetic and not professional at all. He is also feeling really sorry for himself. Trapped in this publicity stunt with a hot guy that's an asshole by default.

“Why?” Sam asks back, a smile on her lips that is audible through the line.

“He's... just. I can't do politics. I have no idea what to think of him, I—”

“Jensen,” she interrupts him. Calm, collected, pulling his feet right back down to earth. “Breathe. You met him today and it didn't go so well, I gather?”

Jensen nods, feels stupid, then admits, “Yes.”

“Do you like kids?”

The question hits him completely out of left field. “Yes?” he scowls at the wall of his living room. He should get a picture or something for that wall, sometime; it seems empty.

“Okay, then. You don't need to sell _him_. Do it for the kids. Equal opportunities, social justice, the light in their eyes. They will be so thrilled to see you. Remember your lines about the Cardinals being all supportive of it and sign some stuff. They'll love it.”

Jensen breathes. “And then we're done?”

“Yes. Promise. Do it for the kids.”

Another deep breath. “I can do that.”

Jensen thinks of blue eyes and dark stubble and not of his half-hard dick.

***  
  
The school knew they were coming, the kids did not.

So with a small entourage of a few security guys and a ball club representative – Samantha – they – meaning Darius, Jared and Jensen in full baseball gear, walk into Ames VPA Elementary School. It's just one out of a handful of schools that are partaking in the program.

The children, once they recognize them, are beside themselves with surprise and hero worship. Jensen feels like a damn movie star.

For the frenzy of half an hour, Jensen grins and smiles until his cheeks hurt, signs everything from textbooks to pencil cases. He isn't even aware of Misha and his whereabouts, despite him having arrived with them. By lunchtime, they get some aprons and hand out meals for every kid. In their damn jerseys, but whatever.

Both a photographer from the club as well as a reporter from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch are constantly swarming around them, taking pictures, and they switch up stations to get different situations captured.

It's all very staged. They're having so much staged fun.

Jensen hates it.

He smiles through it. Because he's professional like that.

When he has to change from the dessert station to the main course station, the worst part happens – he stands next to Misha.

And he can't even glare at him – because being professional.

_Suck it up, Ackles,_ he tells himself.

“You're good with the kids, they love you,” Misha throws him an obvious bone and Jensen has a hard time not rolling his eyes at that.

“Thanks,” he smiles amicably instead and why is Misha still looking at him? “Would you hand me another plate, please?” Jensen asks, flat, all business.

“Sure,” Misha says, packs some noodles onto a plate and hands it to Jensen to pile sauce and meatballs on top of it. “I mean it, though.”

His eyes are so blue. Jensen hates them, too. “Okay, whatever.”

It's like someone's showing him how Misha could be, smiling and friendly and joking and laughing. There's no way around it, he has a winning personality. Jensen can see why people would vote for him, even at his age.

And if he didn't know what was going on behind closed doors, how corrupt and broken this whole system is, Jensen would've cut him some slack. As a matter of fact, Misha's just one more of  _those ones._ The ones that smile into your face and stab you in the back.

They all are.

Misha is whisked away soon enough by the reporter and once the rush is over, Jensen is beckoned over to her, too. He does what he's supposed to, spouts his lines, praises the genius idea of one Mr. Collins who is very considerate and very selfless and very invested in this community, which is when it happens.

Misha says, “So this is what I stand for, as someone who has been raised in poverty by a single mother--”

_Yeah, right, cry me a river,_ Jensen thinks, all sarcasm, doesn't roll his eyes. Like that's true and not Misha making shit up for emotional responses.

“\-- I know how that feels, and I'd like for people to know that I will do whatever I can to strengthen this community and give every member the same starting options when I'll be mayor after next year's elections.”

Jensen blinks.

_Of course._

He fucking knew it. He knew it and it still hits him.

His head swims. Ther are funny spots in his eyesight, maybe his contact lenses acting up. Fuck this shit. Of course he's been had. Of course he's made himself this stranger's puppet for a fucking campaign.

“Oh, so you're running for mayor next year?” the reporter asks, honest surprise on her face. She and the public didn't know about it, either, and that's just… that's just great. “That's delightful to hear! Let me ask you a few questions about--”

“Excuse me,” Jensen says, then heads over to Darius, pulls him down the hallway by his elbow.

Darius' eyes are wide, but somehow calm, he doesn't even fight Jensen's tight grip on his upper arm.

“You knew about this, didn't you?” Jensen shout-whispers. “You _knew_ that he wants to run for mayor.”

“Yeah, is that a problem?” 

“I didn't want _anything_ to do with any political campaigns,” Jensen seethes. He's not one to lose his temper, he's not. So he breathes, in through his nose, out through his mouth. This is Darius, who hasn't done anything wrong except being a supportive friend, or so Jensen tells himself.

Darius tries to placate him, hands on his shoulders. “This is not about the campaign, that hasn't even started yet.”

Jensen snorts with a humorless laugh. “Yeah, right. Technically no, but also technically, yes.”

“Jensen, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend--” And the thing is, Darius sounds honestly distraught, distracted, sympathetic. 

They still have a game to play tomorrow, an important one, and they've worked well so far. Keystone combo, shortstop and second base. Jensen doesn't want to mess up a good thing. Can't afford it, just because his feelings got hurt by some C-level local politician. Even if he has entrancing eyes and a beautiful face.

“It's okay, I guess,” Jensen offers, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “Fuck. Sorry for blowing up in your face like that.”

Darius shakes his head, smiles. “Dude, what exactly is your problem with this?”

Jensen thinks about his mother, ranting at the neighbors and their sign for some democrat. Thinks about his father, who's son was a red-blooded American athlete, why didn't he find a girl to marry? And what is his problem with Bush Jr.? 

“It doesn't matter,” he ends up saying to Darius, then sees the reporter approaching them. “Really, no offense, but you wouldn't understand.”

“A few follow-up questions on the involvement of the Cardinals?” she asks, blinking, smiling.

Jensen smiles back, purely on reflex.

***  
  
The piece winds up on page 15 in the local part of the newspaper two days later. Not exactly front and center.

The article itself is nice enough, neutral enough, less campaign and more social cause although it mentions Misha's goal to run for mayor the following year. Jensen is only quoted once, 'We try to help the more unfortunate members of society, because we think everyone deserves equal chances.'

The picture of him, Darius and Jared is good, they all grin a wide, victorious smile to a subtitle announcing that they have a big play-off game today.

It's only game 3 of 5 in their series against the Twins. They have one win each, the series won't be decided tonight. Sure, every win counts this late in the season, but they have a comfortable win-loss ratio and would have to mess up majorly to not get into the postseason. And they can hold their own, they can make this work.

Jensen looks at the newspaper, at the picture of Misha, smiling at the camera, blue eyes shining even on the dull recycled paper. The sweep of his hair is perfect, his red and gray striped tie perfectly tied, the knot symmetrical. Of course he'd know how to do a Windsor knot.

He's too polished. Too perfect, too pleasant. There's dirt on him somewhere, Jensen knows, and it's not that white lie about being raised by a single mother. It's like an itch Jensen can't scratch and doesn't need to, because that publicity stunt is done and over with and fuck this, he has a game to win tonight.

He stuffs the newspaper into his locker to tie his cleats, first the left, then the right. As always.

He pulls up his socks, up to his knees, the classic way, the way the whole team wears them. As always.

He pats his chest, slips the last button in before he grabs his cap.

Rich, catcher extraordinaire, is the one to paint black stripes onto his cheekbones. “Atta boy,” he says, hitting Jensen's ass on his way past.

Then they head out to the field.

***  
  
“Did you see that grounder in the fifth?” Jensen asks, only for emphasis. Everyone saw that grounder, a ball that came off the bat with massive momentum, hit the infield at a steep angle and Jensen had jumped into the air, catching it, toppling over and still managing to throw the ball from his knees to Ty at first base. They got the out.

“Goddamnit, Ackles, what a catch!” Jared hollers, slaps his shoulder hard before they toast to each other.

Jensen laughs, loud and happy. They've done good today, really good. Darius and him – and Jake at third base, obviously – they had a field day, or, ha, a  _fielding_ day, pun intended. Nothing got past them. Sometimes they're like a well-oiled machine, and a line drive to third gets them three outs in a heartbeat.

“You weren't all that shabby yourself,” Jensen reaches over, rubs his knuckles through Jared's hair. “A full game pitched, in the postseason! You were on fire, dude!”

Jared shoves him off with a sunny laugh. They're all well into a third drink and the waitress comes over with a bucket full of ice, a bottle of vodka and some table-safe fireworks stuck between the cans of red bull.

They have three days off, because after their full five games against the Twins, they got the Padres in G ame 4, won the series 3 to 1. Practice isn't until tomorrow afternoon and they can for once enjoy a night out in town, celebrating, after arriving home from playing their series at PETCO Park. It's good to be home.

The whole team came to their favorite club, and Jensen is still getting accustomed to the lights and the music. They have a private section at the back where the music isn't as loud. It's a dance club like a million others, just a bit more high-class and security is in on them partying here. Not like many people recognize them out of their jerseys, luckily.

Jensen always found it funny, that actors in public tend to hide under baseball caps and sunglasses, when that is exactly what gives baseball players away. Without a cap and without sunglasses, they're usually unrecognizable.

The beat of some crappy pop tune is bouncing off the walls and vibrating in his skull. He's only starting to enjoy the pounding, the rhythm, the way it makes his blood pump, still high on adrenaline.

Jared laughs about something silly with Darius and Jensen smiles at them. Yeah, so what happened two weeks ago, whatever, he doesn't care. Darius and him duked it out on the field, had a few run-ins until Briana, their fielding coach, had batted their heads together to “Talk it out, you assholes, we have a postseason to win!”

And she was right.

The next time Jensen shouted over, “Got it,” then caught the ball barehanded and flipped it backwards at Darius without looking, they made a surprise double play out of it that had the stadium gasping.

Ever since, they've been good.

Even Alex, the rookie, is warming up to him. He has so much talent in left field, exactly what they need. Jensen feels at home with this team, feels like he belongs. After battling his way through a few games, getting into the postseason with them and all. It's good that Jared is here; he's familiar, as lovable as ever, and so much fun to defend behind. 

“Hey, Jackles, fancy a dance?” Jared waggles his eyebrows at him, grins his adorable puppy dog smile.

There might be a timeline, an alternate universe, where Jared is not very straight and not very married with kids and Jensen gets to climb him like a tree but this is not it.

“I don't dance, Jarpad,” he throws back, playing grumpy.

The team has quickly gotten used to the nicknames. 

They had already met before in the minors, then both had their debut games in the majors with the Twins, Jared two years after Jensen. Shortly after his debut, Jared had gone to the Cardinals in a trade that seemed like bullshit, but that's just how the game works. Jensen going to the Rockies  wasn't his idea, either, but it gave him some great opportunities to get off the bench and see more time on the field. 

But yeah, to be back on a team that was an actual contender for the World Series? Feels good - feels  _damn_ good. Having a team that is as fun as this? He'll take it. Having one of his best friends back in his day-to-day life, see him in every training session? Cherry on top.

What more could he wish for?

A few things come to mind and get shoved way, _way_ into the back of his mind.

Despite his refusal, Jared pulls him towards the dance floor two drinks later, and Jensen is just drunk enough to roll his eyes and go with him. Probably because Matt has already lost his shirt and is pushing at his hips from behind while Jared has grabbed his elbow and there's no place to run. Plus, Matt has all the attention on him anyway. He's young and gorgeous and friggin' built and Jensen knows he could absolutely hold his own against him, but he won't pull his shirt off and he doesn't need to prove anything, anyway.

And dancing does sound kind of fun.

On his way past the far corner of the room, Jensen sees him.

Sees him and swallows around a sudden lump in his throat.

Yeah, he'll gladly go dance to get out of here. He has no intention of talking to  _that_ person.

Blue eyes track him all the way, he feels them burning into the back of his skull, and yet, when Jensen turns back, Misha is smiling at Darius.

Jensen hides behind Jared on the packed dance floor, and the first awkward steps from one foot onto the other soon turn into something that resembles dancing. Not that he ever was much of a dancer, but with a bit of liquid courage and some incentive, he can enjoy himself. The music is as generic as it gets, nothing he would ever listen to on purpose, but it's entertaining enough.

He shakes his hips, moves his feet, throws his hands into the air and sings with his teammates. Allows himself to feel the beat and enjoy the night.

It's kind of nice, letting loose for once. Kind of nice, having Matt's hand on his shoulder, laughing with Jared, because the DJ decided to play a remix of the Bloodhound Gang and Jensen feels ten years too old for this.

He's thirsty.

Smiling at the others, he signals that he's going to the bar, but turns to the restrooms first.

Finds himself thinking, when was he last out, having fun, not caring about who sees him?

Sure, this isn't a gay club or anything. He doesn't need to hide here, except from certain friends of certain teammates. He can actually have fun.

So maybe he has been a bit lonely lately, but that's just postseason stress, he tells himself. Every game means too much, now. Every game they win or lose could be the deciding factor.

It'll pass. It's part of the excitement of getting to the postseason in the first place.

Jensen is still stuck on that thought when a familiar voice surprises him from two urinals down the wall. “Hi,” he says. “Are we playing hide and seek?”

Slowly, Jensen turns his head towards him. His expression gives nothing away, but Misha's is deliberately and overly friendly, even as he looks straight at Jensen when he pulls his zipper down. What an obnoxious asshole. Who talks at the urinals? Isn't it an unspoken rule to pee in peace and silence?

He doesn't even break eye contact. Weirdo.

Something sparks all the way through Jensen's ribcage, until it hits low in his stomach.

“Well, I'm not playing,” he deadpans, then zips up, flushes and leaves.

Misha still catches up to Jensen as he's drying his hands. “Are you sure we didn't get off on the wrong foot?”

“Pretty sure,” Jensen squints at him with a nod before he turns around and runs.

Why are his insides in pieces, why is his skin tingling, what the  _fuck,_ did someone spike his drink?

His mouth is dry, so he goes to get himself another drink. Just beer, for now.

Cursing every second the bartender takes to notice him, Jensen taps his fingertips onto the counter. He notices Misha returning to the room and spotting him immediately, making his way through the crowd until he slides up to stand beside Jensen.

And, really, what has he done to deserve this? To be trailed by this guy who roped him into some shitty campaign he didn't want anything to do with?

“What do you _want_ from me?” Jensen throws at him, his voice part stinging ice and part disinterest.

“I wanna know what your problem is with me!” Misha shouts into his ear, over the music, and he's too close, Jensen can smell his cologne and the fruity cocktail he had. He can count the hair on his stubbled chin.

Fuck, he's hot. Radiates heat, too.

Jensen feels it, creeping up his neck and cheeks, feels as it settles low in his groin.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

And he has to lean down, right into Misha's space, to answer. “You fucking _used_ _me_ for your political campaign! Which I said I didn't want!”

“I only dropped half a sentence that I'm going to run for mayor, the campaign hasn't even started, yet.”

Jensen wants to answer, but he's too angry and too drunk to react – thankfully, the bartender materializes in front of them, nodding to signal for their orders.

“A beer,” Jensen shouts.

“Make it two,” Misha adds.

***  
  
Misha doesn't know why he does this to himself; if he's some kind of masochist or something.

But here's Jensen  _fucking_ Ackles, looking down his nose at him with dark green eyes that make Misha weak in the knees. Jensen knows he's gorgeous, a heartthrob. The damn look on him, the confidence, the  _audacity._ Misha defies it out of principle. _Fucking straight dudes,_ he thinks.

There are a few things that make Misha pause, though.

Jensen licks his lips for the third time since Misha had cornered him at the bar. Those damn lips, way too tempting, way too attractive when pulled into a smile.

The fact that they need to stand so close to even talk is not making this any easier.

Misha also knows Jensen would not follow his invitation to come outside and talk this out. He knows he has to force his way to the truth.

They get their beer, and Misha pays for both before Jensen can even protest. The look he earns is very nonplussed, eyebrows high, a frown on his lips. Oh, but Misha loves a challenge.

“What?” he asks, pressing up against Jensen's side. “I can't buy you a drink?”

“What's your deal? I thought you didn't even like baseball?” Jensen snarks, drinking without a toast.

“I don't,” Misha shrugs. _But for some twisted reason, I like you._ Jensen is a mystery, he has layers, and Misha is so, so tempted to pull each and every one apart to see who's hiding in there.

“What do you want from me, then?”

Misha smiles a too-open smile at him, flutters his eyelashes. “What's your issue with politicians, why are we all assholes?”

That's when another patron pushes against him from behind, trying to get the bartender's attention, and Misha takes the opportunity to shove Jensen into a dark corner beside the bar, against a column that bears a fire extinguisher. At least here, they're out of sight.

It's still loud, so Misha crowds in close, asks, “So?” with his left eyebrow high on his forehead.

He sees it, clear as day, how Jensen swallows, how his eyes drop to Misha's lips.

_That's interesting._

Maybe, just maybe, pushing a little more might lead to surprising insights. Misha places his hand on Jensen's hip when Jensen leans in.

“None of your fucking business,” Jensen answers, a growl, low in his throat that has Misha shift on his feet as his tight pants start to become uncomfortable.

Squeezing his hand where it curves around Jensen's hipbone, Misha reminds him that they're touching, just to drive the point home. “We have a collaboration, we might work together again, too, so any way I can understand--”

Jensen grabs his hand from his hip and drops it like a hot potato. “Stop it. And we won't. I won't get pulled into this.”

“Local politics? Oh, please. We're so vanilla. It's not like we're a presidential campaign - you know that, right?”

The mention of vanilla apparently makes Jensen perk up. “Doesn't matter,” he spits. “I know how these things work. You'll bend over for anyone offering enough money, that's just how the world turns.”

“I think you have me confused with some easily corrupted lobbyist,” Misha laughs. 

“Y'all are dicks,” Jensen returns, eyes going squinty again. He's definitely a few drinks in. “Now if you excuse me, I have enough of you ruining our night of celebrating a win.”

He pushes against Misha, but there's a staff-only door beside them that opens right that moment, and Jensen is abruptly stopped in his tracks. Their bodies slam together, Misha's hip and thigh are pressed against Jensen's lower body and for a split second, Misha feels it.

And maybe his gaydar is not that off, maybe it's confused by the force of circumstances.

Because Jensen is most definitely hard in his pants and his breath is most definitely also hitching in his throat at the contact.

On instinct, Misha's hand goes back around his middle, pulling him close, providing some grounding force against the sudden movement of the door. They're chest to chest when Misha leans forward to rasp into Jensen's ear, “You talking about dicks and bending over makes me re-think your definition of a night of celebrating.”

And when he leans back, Jensen catches another sudden stumble with a hand at Misha's hip.

He sucks in a deep breath, the lines around his mouth softening.

Misha locks eyes with him and stares him down with a smirk on his lips. He bites his tongue.

The way Jensen goes wide-eyed at the innuendo, the way he licks his lips _again_ _and_ bites them afterwards, the way his eyes blink just once, twice.

That is not the look of someone completely uninterested in that suggestion.

Misha presses his thigh against Jensen's erection. Jensen frowns only harder, but his eyes roll back on a suppressed moan.

“Fuck you,” he presses out between his teeth. Misha barely hears it with the music pounding through the club, but he can clearly read it on his lips and smirks.

“If that's what you're into,” he throws back.

Jensen glowers at him. “None of your business.”

Misha just shoots him another quirk of his eyebrow. After all, Jensen is the one who's clearly hard and Misha knows it, and Jensen knows that Misha knows.

Misha does not care if he finds out. Maybe that's a stupid-ass decision, but he believes in solidarity among the LGBTQ+ community.

“What do you want? Want to get some leverage on me?” Jensen spits, a threatening growl that has Misha's stomach tingling. That snarl on his lips, that glower in his eyes, it's delicious, it makes Misha all warm and fuzzy inside. He _really_ loves a challenge.

So he smiles before he answers, “Are you telling me I do have leverage now?”

Jensen's glare turns to a death glare, but he doesn't answer for a few long, telling seconds. “Fuck you,” he repeats himself, with less emphasis this time.  _There it is. Sweet defeat._

Giving him some space now that he cracked him, Misha retreats. He knows he looks smug, and he wonders how far he could take this. He wonders how far he can reveal his own secrets, too. After all, it's fun, this elaborate game of cat and mouse.

“Aren't you dying to get some leverage on me, too?” he asks eventually, maybe a bit too suggestive.

Jensen tips his head back, perking up. Green eyes are sparkling down at him with a heat that makes Misha sweat. “Aren't you afraid I'll ruin your campaign?”

“Not when I know I can get revenge anytime,” Misha shakes his head. “So why would I?” Not to mention that it would be one hell of a dick move, which goes unsaid.

Jensen surprises him in return. It happens so fast that Misha only realizes what happened when his back hits the wall, when he recognizes that the hands - deft, skilled hands, one at his shoulder, still holding the beer as well, and the other at his hip - belong to one hell of a hot baseball player. Who has him against the wall in a dark corner of the club and-- Jensen shoves his leg between Misha's, finds the obvious bulge while Misha bites his lip in an effort not to groan.

There's an entirely too attractive smirk on his lips when Jensen's eyes drop almost closed with a shameless smolder. He leans in to state, “That's what I thought.”

Stepping back, Jensen doesn't break eye contact. He stares Misha down until the last second, then smiles, winks, and vanishes into the crowd.

Misha places his beer on the floor, stays right where he is, squatting on his heels. Jesus, he can't breathe. He lets his head drop back against the wall, stares blankly at the spot where Jensen disappeared.

So much for gay players not existing. Or bi, or pan, or whatever.

Misha's stomach suddenly drops out of him. Adrenaline spikes, the heat in his ribcage making him feel confined, tied down, and yet his cock is so hard, he can't stand right now. Shit, this was... not supposed to happen, but of course Misha pushed and pushed until Jensen gave in. Of course he did. 

There's something here, and it scares him, because Jensen makes him quiver inside. Not that he'd ever tell him that, fuck no.

Darius will never believe him, but it's not like Misha can tell him, anyway.

He hasn't decided yet if Jensen is the one who he'd risk letting his career get ruined for or if he's the one who gets away. On the upside, Jensen does have quite a bit to lose, too.

Misha breathes, closes his eyes. Reaches for his beer blindly. The bottle tips over, and half of it spills on the floor.

Cursing, Misha picks the bottle back up and empties what little there is left, then goes to get himself something stronger.

He can't spot Jensen on the dance floor from here.

After two shots of tequila that Misha feels entirely too old for, he pushes through the people, steps over shards of glass. It's getting late.

Jensen is easy to find, once Misha gets close enough. Mostly because he's with Jared, who stands a head taller than everyone else. And even if Darius didn’t talk about his teammates constantly, Misha would recognize Jared anywhere.

He takes a deep breath and shoulders his way through the crowd.

Maybe he is a masochist after all.

***  
  
Jensen hates being hit on.

Not that he hates being the center of attention, he can deal with that just fine.

However, it's one of those things that he doesn't particularly enjoy about going out, going dancing. Because once he finds that sweet spot, where mood and intoxication and music fit just right, someone tends to ruin it.

There are hands, out of nowhere, at his hips, and someone presses up against him from behind, moving with him. Someone almost as tall as him, with huge hands, and no boobs pressing against his back.

Jensen turns around to find blue eyes with entirely too much mirth shining back at him.  _I dare you,_ they say.

Instantly, the arms shift upwards, hands curling behind Jensen's neck, and then he has his nose buried in messy dark hair that smells too good.

“Your secret's safe with me,” Misha shouts over the music.

Jensen groans and closes his eyes, but then Misha is off and away, quick on his feet, dancing around the other people. He does look over his shoulder, with a confident grin on his lips, showing rows of white teeth, stubble dipping around dimples and laugh lines.

With a roll of his eyes, Jensen turns back to Jared, who shoots him a curious smile. Jensen just shakes his head to brush him off.

They don't need people becoming suspicious.

There's nothing to be suspicious about.

Jensen has always made sure that nobody had anything to be suspicious about and that's not going to change.

It's not.

So he drinks and forgets about a too attractive smile, about a stubborn idiot popping a boner because Jensen was mean to him, and drinks some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this one! Things are definitely picking up and these two stubborn idiots will be a challenge for each other. Let me know what you think - and thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time: a night of celebrating reveals mutual attraction and some blackmail material.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments (here or elsewhere ;) ) about the last chapter! So glad you enjoyed the steamy bar encounter!

Misha wakes up the next morning seeing spots dancing behind his eyes and with the distinct taste of dead squirrel on his tongue.

He groans and feels his cheek moving against naked skin – that is not his own. Like, not his arm, at least, because his arm is numb and useless, trapped underneath that other person.

There's also coarse hair stuck to his beard.

Misha has no idea when he got wasted like that for the last time.

He vaguely remembers Darius, and Jensen, and dancing, and drinking until the strobe lights in the club went out and the neon tubes went on. He remembers moss green eyes and a flutter in his stomach.

The chest underneath him rises and falls and Misha spends half a second panicking about waking up in someone else's bed.

The other half of that second he wonders if he went home with a certain green-eyed grasshopper that has been flirting with him all evening. Well, Misha kind of bullied him into it. Jensen went down kicking and screaming, but he dished out as much as he took.

As a matter of fact, it was most likely Darius, because he has brought Misha's drunk ass home more times than he can count. Misha would also recognize his snores anywhere.

Reluctantly, he peels his eyes open, to confirm that yes, Darius is sprawled out on his bed, and Misha finds himself in his boxers and shirt and nothing else, lying half on top of him. He rolls over, throws his feet over the edge of the bed, ignores the pounding in his head and goes to take a leak.

He feels like shit, his body aches everywhere, muscles protesting and stomach churning.

But he remembers, and wonders, tries to fit the pieces of memory together. The first ones are kind-of in a chronological order. Jensen cornering him beside the bar, leaving him all hot and bothered. Misha also remembers approaching him on the dance floor shortly after. He remembers Darius getting more shots for all of them. He remembers Matt, forever shirtless, bringing back an entourage of giggling, half-drunk chicks to the private section of the club. He remembers Jared, arms raised over his head, hair flying everywhere.

He remembers Darius pulling Jensen into their corner, arm over his shoulders, roping him into a conversation, getting him to laugh, flashing that bright, beautiful smile of his.

There's a detached moment, at the bar, hands at his hips, someone behind him, a few people around him. A hand slipping into his back pocket, groping his ass. Hips bumping, shoulders brushing. A hand, grabbing his.

Another one, in the bathroom, someone retching in one of the stalls, someone fucking in another.

He remembers looking into the mirror, his vision spinning. Jensen appearing beside him, Misha turning to him, and there was a weird moment of sizing each other up.

There is a big fat gap in Misha's brain after that. He vaguely sees the cab they went home in, and Darius beside him, but that's it.

Groaning, Misha splashes some water into his face, borrows some toothpaste and shrubs his teeth down with his index finger. Better than nothing and eradicating some of the dead squirrel.

“Mornin',” Darius mumbles, stumbling into the bathroom after him and going straight for the toilet to barf.

Misha laughs, coughs on his spit, and almost joins him. “Aw, shit,” he mutters under his breath.

“We haven't been out like this since, what, college?” Darius ponders, coughs once more into the toilet, but his stomach is empty. With his eyes closed, he props his chin up on his hand and sighs. “I'm too old for this.”

Leaning back against the washing basin, Misha echoes the sigh. “You tell me. I barely remember how we got home. And I'm not that much of a lightweight.”

Darius chuckles as he heaves himself up. Still unsteady, he flushes and shoos Misha off to gurgle some water. After spitting out the water and washing his face, he locks eyes with Misha over the mirror, and Misha does not like the amusement playing over his features. There's knowledge he's not sure he wants to face. “I don't even know how I ever managed to peel you off of Jay.”

“Jay?”

“Jensen.”

Misha scratches the back of his neck. “Please tell me we didn't... do... anything.”

Darius tilts his head sideways. “You really don't--? You two were missing for quite some time, there, we'd almost thought we'd find you fucking in the bathroom at some point.”

Shrugging and shaking his head is the only thing Misha can add to that. “I have no memory of that.”

Darius chuckles, waggles his eyebrows. “You know, for someone you said you couldn't stand, you were all over him.”

Misha groans.

Thinks.

His head is pounding too much to think.

“I need coffee for this conversation,” he rubs his aching eyes. “So I can decide if I even want to have it.”

While Darius works on finding his sea legs, Misha busies himself with the coffee machine.

So what if they had a good time yesterday.

So what if Jensen outed himself to Misha.

So what if he flirted with Misha,  _so fucking what._

He's still a jock, still too full of himself, still too pretty for his own good and he knows it.

He also still doesn't trust Misha, so there's that.

The coffee machine gurgles to life, and Misha goes to check his phone for the first time since God knows when. He finds it in the pocket of his discarded jeans, on the floor of Darius' hallway.

Yeah, if anyone would come in here, they'd get a completely wrong idea about him and Darius.

With routine taps and clicks, Misha filters through his e-mail and wonders. There's surprisingly little. No new pictures on it, either. He checks his texts.

The last conversation is some drunk random letters to Darius. How there are six different versions of 'cab?', and every single one is misspelled, Misha has no idea. Darius had answered with a simple 'Y' – but not as in 'why' but as in 'yes'. Above those six versions of the word 'cab', there's a monologue of Darius. 'Mish, where are you', 'Dammit did you run off', 'this isn't funny', 'WHERE THE FUCK', 'I swer if I find u and J ducking in the bathroom', '*fucking'.

Misha cackles.

The thread of texts below Darius, he doesn't recognize.

The contact's name is 'Nesnej'. Who the fuck is Nesnej?

There's exactly one message from Misha to this person, and it says 'Hey' and nothing else.

While Misha still tries to solve that puzzle, the coffee pot stops dripping, and Darius yawns, entering the kitchen.

Which reminds Misha, as he's filling up two cups, that he still needs to decide if he's going to have this conversation with Darius and if so, how far he'll go into detail.

He can't exactly out his teammate to him, that would be one hell of an asshole move. He also can't say how much Darius saw, how obvious it was, how easy it was for him to put two and two together.

“So, Jensen,” Darius says, then immediately interrupts Misha when he opens his mouth. “No, I know, you want to suck his cock, he wants to suck yours, no question there. Pretty sure half of the happily married guys on the team want to suck his cock. Anyway. I thought you couldn't stand him?”

“I can't.”

Darius looks at him, incredulously, and slurps his coffee as his eyebrows climb higher and higher.

“You think he's into me?” Misha asks, hates how insecure he sounds.

“Yeah, you fourteen-year-old girl, I think he's into you. He would've flirted his way into your pants if I hadn't taken you home.”

“I was smashed.”

With a snort, Darius shakes his head. “No kidding. So was he, so was I.”

Misha ducks his head. “I don't remember anything happening. I mean, I remember dancing with all of you and having a good time, but there wasn't anything else. He probably hates my guts.”

“So, um, see,” Darius taps the edge of his mug of coffee. “I think he hates politicians, but you make him all weak in the knees. And he has no idea what to do with that.”

Misha throws his head back and groans. “I have no ambition to be someone's sexual awakening.”

“Mish, don't give yourself too much credit.”

With a sigh, Misha drinks his coffee and doesn't answer. The guy is in his thirties and gorgeous, and so cock-sure that Misha... well, yeah. Jensen didn't seem hesitant at all yesterday, from what Misha remembered. It's very likely that Misha is giving himself too much credit.

If he would just remember what happened during that huge, black hole in his memory.

Darius, bless him, doesn't bother him about it.

***  
  
_My head is killing me,_ Jensen texts and hits send, then closes his eyes immediately.

Of course his phone starts to ring half a minute later.

“'lo,” he answers without even looking who it is, because he knows.

“Jensen! Hi!” a cheery voice greets from the speaker. “Congrats on winning your series!”

“You're talking too loud,” Jensen grouses. “Also, hi, Dee.”

“Aw, are you hungover? What happened? You're not one to celebrate that hard,” she grins that obnoxious grin he loves so much, and it makes Jensen smile to hear it.

“Yeah, well. Special evening. Or something.”

“Uuuh, tell me more.”

Why is he telling her this?

“So I dunno if you've seen it in the paper, but I'm collaborating on an elementary school food program with this local alderman,” Jensen rubs his eyes, then rests his arm across them. “He wants to run for mayor. He's such a goody-two-shoes, I don't trust him.”

Right. Because he needs to get this off his chest. And who would be better to vent to than Danneel, who hasn't even met the guy and is his best friend?

“Okay? Where is this going?” she asks.

_I have a thing for him,_ is what Jensen doesn't say. “He's also best friends with Darius, our second baseman.”

“Okay...”

“And he was there, yesterday. Don't ask me why, but--” Jensen sighs. “I may have flirted with him... a bit.”

“And that's why you took a cup too much? Liquid courage?”

Jensen groans. “You know how it is. I can't.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can't come out, you're a self-depreciating, self-sacrificing masochist, yada-yada. So this guy got your panties in a twist?”

“No,” Jensen replies on principle.

“Jay.”

“Okay, so he's interesting, but you heard that he's an alderman, yes? As in, city council, local politics?”

“Oh,” Danneel hums in understanding, sounding dejected for Jensen's sake. “Hey, what's this guy's name? I want to google him.”

“Misha Collins,” Jensen says.

There's the clacking and clicking of fingernails on a keyboard, the slap on the enter button finishing what seems to be a google search.

Some scrolling, the mouse rattling under Danneel's fingers. An amused huff.

Jensen hears a female voice talking to Danneel from the background and grins. “And say hi to Vicki for me.”

Danneel is too far away to talk to him, but Jensen can guess their dialogue all the same. “What's that? Yes, Vic. Misha. Yeah. Collins.”

There's an epic laughing fit on the other end of the line, and it's not Danneel.

“What?” Jensen says.

“Vicki says you shouldn't sleep with him, he's too kinky for you.”

“ _What?”_ Jensen repeats. That dude? And how would Vicki... “How does Vicki know that?”

There's shuffling on the line, Danneel handing the phone over. “Hi, Jay. We kinda-sorta dated in college. With a name like that, he's kind of easy to recognize.”

Jensen almost falls off his couch. “You dated him?”

“In college. Ages ago.”

“So, he, what--”

“Swings both ways, yes.”

It takes Jensen a second to wrap his head around that. “And it didn't work out?”

“Obviously. He moved halfway across the country. Who knows, maybe we'd be married with children by now if he didn't.”

Jensen thinks he hears Danneel say something like, “His loss, my gain.”

It's one additional piece of the mystery puzzle that is Misha Collins.

“His eyes still so pretty?”

Jensen hums, lost in thought. “Yeah.”

“Hold on, Dee is almost jumping out of her skin.”

More shuffling.

Danneel, grinning, excited. “Tell me  _everything.”_

“Nothing to tell. I got drunk and distracted by a pretty set of eyes, so. Nothing happened.”

“Really?”

Jensen blushes just thinking about last night. And Danneel is his best friend, okay, but he barely remembers anything because he's been out of it. He remembers standing too close to Misha, talking too much, dancing too close. Being tempted, so tempted.

He's also pretty damn frustrated and they were all wasted, so.

“Yes, really. Nothing happened.”  
  
***  
  
“Dare, did I talk to anyone else yesterday?”

Darius scowls as he looks up at Misha from where he's sitting at the kitchen table. “No, only with the guys from the team, why?”

Misha sits down across from him, nibbling on some crisp bread he found. It's not all that crisp any more. “Because I found a contact in my phone that I don't remember saving.”

The scowl gets accompanied by a frown. “Let me see.”

Misha hands over his phone with the 'Hey' from Nesnej on the screen.

Darius stares at the phone for a solid five seconds before he starts laughing,  _hard_ .

“What?” Misha screeches over his cackling. “Why are you laughing, you asshat?”

Darius holds his stomach, still curling in on himself, and slides the phone back across the table.

Shrugging at him, Misha raises his eyebrows. “Care to enlighten me?”

“Just... read,” Darius wheezes, now getting up and leaving.

“Yeah? Nesnej. I don't know a Nesnej. So I must've--”

“Read, Misha. Read the _letters_.”

Misha looks at Darius, looks at the phone, stares at the 'Hey' and 'Nesnej' and slowly, the coffee does its work.

The letters  _are_ associated with a name, and if he put the J up front--

Misha groans, slaps his hand over his eyes, to Darius' further amusement.

“Figured it out?” 

Misha nods. What an idiot. Who puts his name in backwards? And why hasn't he figured it out sooner? Misha sighs, and tries to find the option to change the contact. “Yeah, now I'm just trying to-- where is the damn edit button on this?” he grouses, then gets his phone snatched away.

“Here, let me.”

Only when Darius hands it back, the contact name is still 'Nesnej' but it has a '<3' attached to it.

Misha groans. “Fuck you.”

Darius cackles. He is having a field day.

“On a serious note, though,” Misha winces at the thought. “Please don't mention this to him. I don't know how comfortable he is with you knowing--”

“Of course,” Darius sobers, too. “I figured. I mean, statistically, there has to be – what, a whole gay team in MLB? So how have I been with four clubs already and never met anyone? You and I both know there's a very don't ask, don't tell policy in place.”

Misha snorts. “And you know what I think about that.”

Darius nods. “Let's not. It's hard enough as it is.”

“Speaking of. How you doing?”

With a shrug, Darius turns away. “I'm good. Jess will be here over the weekend.”

“That's good to know, in that case I'll make myself scarce,” Misha smiles to himself. Darius' girlfriend still lives in L.A. most of the time, so when she comes over, Darius has other priorities. 

“How 'bout you hit up this guy Nesnej, huh?” Darius winks.

“I won't hear the end of this, will I,” Misha grouses, drops the rest of his half eaten, not-crisp crisp bread.

A shit-eating grin. “Nope.”

For a moment, Misha wonders. If the alcohol just stripped them both of their mutual dislike of their professions. If, given different circumstances, different times, different spaces, they would've gone home together. If there would be more.

If they are missing out.

“What are you thinking?” Darius asks, picking up on Misha's internal struggle because of course he would.

Misha sighs. “Being a politician. I love it, I want to make the world a better place and all. And I know I don't need to tell you of all people, but I hate hiding half of what I am. You know I pride myself on being authentic, but I'm not - not at all, in fact.”

“You know, Jensen would be able to relate, I'm sure.”

“Hm.”

They stare at each other, lost in thought, until Darius grabs his phone. “So, are we ordering pizza for lunch or what?”

That's when Misha's phone pings with a new text.

***  
  
_You should really learn a thing or two about baseball, if you're running a collab with a ball club._

Jensen sends it without thinking about it further.

The answer comes instant and short,  _Why?_

_Because you made pitcher/catcher jokes at me all evening. Dude, I'm a shortstop. Well, mostly._

Jensen had leaned back into his couch after telling Danneel the bare minimum just to get told to pull his head out of his ass. And see if this is a good thing (it isn't).

And because there isn't an answer in the next two minutes, Jensen can't help but kick a man that's already down.

_A tight end is also a football term, not baseball._

Misha answers,  _It's not like I watch either, so._

_Well if you want into my pants you better start watching._

_Who says I want into your pants, Nesnej?_

_Please. The dry-humping was pretty obvious._

***

Misha balks. Dry-humping? Fuck, what else did he miss?

Also, how full of himself is Jensen. Fuck that shit.

_Interesting since you seem to share the sentiment. Wouldn't have thought you were into dick. Your fans probably don't think that, either._

_So are you. Pretty sure that would be interesting for your election campaign. First gay mayor of STL, has a ring to it._

_Are we done threatening each other? And I'm bi. Just FYI._

_Cool. I'm gay. Which doesn't fly when you're a ballplayer, just in case you didn't know._

Misha breathes. He finally feels like they're getting somewhere.

_Still doesn't mean I want into your pants,_ he types out, but deletes it.

Then he types it again and sends it, just for good measure. Let Jensen know where he stands.

_And why would I care. I was just teasing anyway._

God, how he hates that guy.

Why is he even texting him.

***  
  
“Yeah, right,” Jensen huffs to himself, reading back on their dialogue. “Like you don't want into my pants, you ass.” Evidence suggests differently.

He wonders if Misha doesn't remember. They  _were_ both pretty smashed. Especially towards the end, in the bathroom. Jensen doesn't remember it all that well, either; but there was Misha, he was close, his dick was hard, Jensen's pants were open for whatever reason, and then there was Darius. That's all Jensen remembers before Jared had grabbed him around the waist and hauled him into the back of a taxi.

It's all blink-and-you-miss it in his mind. He's pretty sure neither one of them got off, not by how much he’d winced through getting his jeans back up.

He'd also really wish for that to happen when he was sober, so he could appreciate it properly.

Wait, does he want into Misha's pants?

The guy is hot and all, but even if there is something, here – he's a pro baseball player. If he comes out, there's no going back. They'd have to keep it on the down low, be very careful about it.

They can't pull a stunt like yesterday again, that's for sure. If his teammates hadn't been there...

Jensen grabs his cell phone again. He wants to text Misha, something to make it clear that yesterday was an epic mistake and that he's usually not someone who drinks that much, that he's too old for that, too professional. And stuff.

Instead, his phone vibrates with a text from Jared.  _Dude, how's your head?_

_Don't ask,_ Jensen replies and now that Jared reminded him, he rolls to his feet and heads to the bathroom to get some Tylenol.

_Talk about a wild night ;D_

Jensen smirks, then hits the call button.

“Dude,” Jared answers.

“How's _your_ head?” Jensen offers.

“No,” Jared groans, and they both laugh. “I prayed to the gods of porcelain this morning. Gen made fun of me. I am emasculated.”

“Sure thing, big boy,” Jensen laughs some more. “Not like we don't deserve it for blowing that party way out of proportion yesterday.”

“'t'was fun.”

Jensen sees blinking, colorful lights, Jared's hair flying to the beat.

“So, you up for brunch? I need to get something to eat and I don't feel like going alone. My wife has way too much fun making fun of me.”

“I need to shower first,” Jensen doesn't bother hiding the grin that's stuck to his face. “But sure, let's.”

They agree on meeting up in a small diner that Jared needs to give Jensen directions to, and when Jensen is just about ready to hang up, Jared tacks on - hurried, unsure, and that's completely out of character for him - “Um, Jay. So did you regret not taking him home?”

Jensen's heart drops into his stomach like lead.

“Um, who?” he asks lamely.

“Darius' friend. Whatshisname. The politician we did the food program thingie with.”

“Misha.”

“Yeah, him.”

Jensen swallows, chanting  _fuckfuckfuck_ on repeat in his brain. Don't panic.  _Don't panic._ “No, why would I?”

“It's just, you guys seemed pretty into each other.”

Closing his eyes, Jensen counts to three. What did Jared witness? “Just had some fun, nothing more.”

“A-huh.” That doesn't sound too reassuring.

“Jared, I don't know what you saw, but--”

There's a laugh on the line, but Jensen can't relax just yet. “Dude, even if. So what. And I didn't see anything. So relax.”

There's an awkward silence on the phone, and it's neither the right time to change the subject nor to hang up.

“Can I ask, if you're...?” Jared trails off.

“No. I mean. Yes, you can, but no, I'm not,” Jensen answers reflexively. He's too used to this, he thinks. Too used to denying who he is, denying himself anything that might give him away.

For what it's worth, he won't be  _that gay baseball player_ . He denies the public that. And anyway, he's 32, has maybe a couple more years left in his career, and he'll be a free agent soon anyway. Just one more season. He won't fuck this up, he won't.

If it means lying to one of his best friends on the phone, he can do that.

Jared gets defensive immediately. “You know there's nothing wrong with it, right? I mean, there's gotta be some players out there, who are, you know.”

_Gay,_ Jensen wants to scream into the mic.  _Say the word, goddamnit._

“I know,” he manages, presses it out through his teeth, too silent, too quiet. Where's his fucking pride when he needs it. Ah, yes - buried with his needs and everything else.

“I'm just saying, if there was someone on our team, I'm sure the guys would be fine with it.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Jensen replies, not doubting that at all. The guys on the team are the least of his worries. It's the public that'd tear him, them, whoever, to shreds. It's the fact that he'd sabotage his own contract negotiations. He'd sabotage his choice of team to play for, and maybe limit it to his current one. As much as he loves them because they are an awesome bunch, free agency is where the big money is at and he didn't want to sacrifice the past several years for nothing. 

And so what if he wants to see some money, playing the sport he loves. He might blow out his arm, his knees, his back, at any time. His career is over at 40 for sure.

So love can wait, and it doesn't matter what the team thinks.

“See you in an hour?” Jensen throws in.

“Yeah, I'll try to shower. We're never doing this again,” Jared sighs. “Well, I hope we do have reason to celebrate again like that but. Maybe half as hard is good, too.”

Jensen huffs an amused laugh into the phone, then hangs up.

***  
  
Jensen finds the message after they lose game 3 of their best-of-5 series against the Giants.

He's still sweaty and pissed off and if that bobble in the 6 th hadn't--

It wasn't his fault. It wasn't Jared's, either. He has like two milliseconds to react, if a ball is hit straight to the mound. It's dumb fucking luck and the rest is just the other team getting the momentum going.

Maybe they also were too comfy, resting on their laurels.

Fuck.

And Jensen hates checking his phone after a game. Sometimes it's his dad who'd tried to call him, because he will never - not in this life anyway - understand how Jensen neither has his phone with him in the dugout nor is back in the changing room five minutes after the game. 

Sometimes it's old teammates, rubbing him the wrong way, texting and teasing him about a play mid-game. Sometimes it's boring news that only irk Jensen because his mind is still on baseball.

Today, it's a message from Misha.  _Are you coming to the fundraiser on Friday?_ it says.

Jensen hits the call button and asks, “What fundraiser?” the second Misha picks up, in lieu of a greeting.

“Hello to you, too,” Misha sounds taken aback. “Well, a fundraiser.”

“What part of 'Don't rope me into your campaign' didn't you get?” Jensen snaps back.

“Jeez, what's got your panties in a twist?”

Rubbing his eyes, Jensen breathes to calm down. “We just lost an important game. How do you not even follow the games?”

“I just don't.”

“But you're asking if I'm coming to your damn fundraiser. Why would I?”

Misha sounds carefree and Jensen wants to punch him in the face when he chirps, “You know, we've got that collaboration thing? People probably would be interested to see some support for it and for the club, and have you read the comments online about it? People looove you. So, I dare say, it's beneficial to all parties around if you showed your face.”

Jensen takes off his cap and wipes sweat from his brow. And thinks.

The thing is, Misha has a point. And he even adds, “You don't even need to do anything. Just get a suit, stand in the back and look pretty. You can do that, right?”

He can totally do that.

That's when an idea strikes him. “Let's make a deal.”

“I'm listening,” and Misha sounds reluctant, which is a win in Jensen's book.

“I'll come to the fundraiser - _if_ we win the game tomorrow. Because if we don't, we'll have the last game of the series on Friday, anyway,” he explains. “But I want you to watch the game tomorrow. And I want you to tell me everything I did wrong afterwards.” Jensen grins.

“I don't even know the rules,” Misha throws in.

“Well, learn them. It's not that hard. There's a children's song that explains it pretty good.”

Jensen thinks he hears a muffled curse under Misha's breath. Then, a grumbled, “Fine.”

“I'll call you, about two hours after the game.”

He also thinks Misha groans, but he hangs up before he can identify the sound.

For just having lost a game, Jensen is very chipper now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The banter of these two, will it ever end. Also did I mention I love writing Darius? I love writing Darius. Next up: actual baseball being played.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time: Misha deals with the morning after, Darius is flaunting his best friend rights, and Jensen dares Misha to watch a game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck blackout restrictions (like seriously, MLB, way to shoot yourself in the foot), so let's pretend they don't exist.
> 
> Also, just to make sure: the rivaling teams are entirely made of OCs. Though you might find nods to other teams and players here or there, no actual real life baseball players are in this story.

Misha settles on the couch with his remote in hand and a notepad and pen in the other.

Don't let it be said that he didn't do whatever he could to run for mayor. He wants this. And if it means sitting through a lousy game of baseball and watching Jensen Ackles' each and every move, then, well – there's a worse sight for sore eyes.

The beginning of the game is as boring as he expected, so he gets himself a cup of tea and a yogurt.

By the time the players have taken their positions on the field, Misha has gathered from the narration of the reporters that this is a deciding game, that if the Cardinals win this, they get to go to the next round.

Jared is the starting pitcher today and Misha can only imagine what it's like to be with him, on the field, with all the positive energy he radiates. The close-up shots track him shouting something towards second base, where Darius stands with one foot on the white bag, laughing at whatever Jared said. And there's the first time Misha spots Jensen, as he hits his gloved hand against Darius' and they part with a nod. Darius stays at second base, Jensen drifts behind and a bit into the outfield.

They don't have much to do because Jared's curveball is snappy and his fastballs are a force to be reckoned with today, or so the reporters tell him. Anyway, he gets three outs on the first three batters, and it takes him thirteen minutes to do so.

And that's only the top half of the first inning. 

He has barely gets to see anything from the Cardinals on offence in the bottom of the 1 st , Jensen doesn't even get up to bat yet. Misha googles the day's batting order and finds him in 5 th place. He doesn't even know if that's good or bad.

Google says the best hitters are usually in third to fifth position, meant to get a good lead-off batter home, and that they're also called 'clean up'. Okay, so Jensen seems to be one of the better hitters.

The first three batters – Roché, Cohen and Abel - don't get far, two are out after what Misha gathered were three strikes. There's kind of a rectangle that they virtually lay over the catcher and home plate and if the ball hits the catcher's mitt within it, it's in the strike zone. Easy. But if the batter swings and misses, that's a strike, too. Misha does know a bit about this, okay? Okay. Jake Abel at least hits the ball in the air, but it goes way high and gets caught in the outfield without hitting the grass. The commentators call it a fly and Abel is out and the teams change sides.

Misha sighs, rubs his eyes. Still only top of the 2 nd inning, and the first batter of the Giants striking out on the fourth pitch doesn't promise any more action. Misha's cup is empty and there's still 8 of these innings to go.

Drawing flowers into his notepad as the kettle starts to boil, for a whole thermos of tea this time, Misha wonders why he doesn't just spike it. 

Part of him gets why people drink alcohol at games.

The bottom of the second inning starts with Darius up to bat, and that at least gets Misha's attention, easily.

His best friend looks damn scary in his full get-up - uniform, shin protector, wearing the hard hat they use for batters with the one covered ear. Darius once told him, getting hit by 100 mph fastballs anywhere is no fun, least of all in the head - and once he even showed Misha his hip, purple and blue and swollen from batting practice. So Misha believes that.

They all have a little routine, of sorts. Darius holds his bat towards the pitcher, tip pointed upwards, swings two times, then settles low on his knees.

It's entirely uneventful. In an exciting way.

There's a pitch that Darius lets through, and winces afterwards. Not that it's easy to see, but Misha knows him, knows what that pinched look, the sideways tip of his lips means. The pitcher makes the mistake of thinking he can get him again with that pitch, it seems, and throws it right at the same spot again.

There's a whack, Darius looks out, and the reporter cheers, “Aaand he hits a long one, deep left field, at the wall – and off to Big Mac Land!”

Misha squints. Sure enough, there's a sign that says 'Big Mac Land' on the outer part of the second deck. A home run, then.

The cameras follow Darius on his obligatory run around the bases, music blaring in the background, and the Cardinals, up by one run now, welcome him back into the dugout with high fives and slaps on the back. To see them all grin and laugh like that makes Misha smile as well. S

After the short celebration, Jensen steps into the box in front of the catcher, nods at him, then at the umpire standing behind the catcher. He taps home plate with the tip of his bat, the far corner first, then the inner one, swings once and settles with another nod to the pitcher.

Nothing happens. The pitcher seems to shake his head at the catcher and some kind of silent conversation happens.

The reporters are spelling it out for anyone as new to this as Misha is. “And he is not happy about Williams' call here, despite Williams being one of the more conservative catchers in the league. Still, with Ackles' track record against lefties, better safe than sorry, and Pierce's slider is rather weak today – maybe that's why he shook off the call. He's nodding, okay, so let's see what they agreed on. Let's see what the shortstop has to say to their choice. Killing lefties is what Ackles does, but against Pierce in particular, Ackles has rarely hit the first pitch, though his OPS against Pierce is, of course, a staggering .444.”

Whatever that means. They sure love their numbers.

The first pitch comes and Jensen glares at it, but doesn't swing. The umpire does a thing with his hand and the reporter praises Jensen for not going after the ball. Jensen glares some more at the pitcher, rearranges some dirt with his feet, then waits for the catcher to return the ball before he repeats his thing: tapping home plate, far corner, inner corner, swings once, settles, nods.

This time, the pitch comes fast and he swings through it.

“And there's the slider Pierce has been honing, and what a breaking pitch it is when it works,” an overlay appears, the trajectory of the ball starting exactly where the ball before had, following the same line but suddenly veering off to the side. It's clear that Jensen's bat slams right through the line of where the first ball had been. He should've known better. “Now that's a nasty pitch,” the other commentator adds.

Misha jots that down, feeling triumphant.  _Slider, second inning._

The count is one ball – one strike, and the pitcher and the catcher once again communicate with nods and handwaves and hidden signs. Jensen repeats the routine. Misha is bored, but wonders where this goes. A close-up reveals Jensen glowering at the pitcher, like he wants to instill the fear of God in him. Misha would shake under that gaze, for completely different reasons.

For a moment, he reminisces. Just a few days ago, that guy had him pressed up against a wall with his thigh against Misha's crotch and – _oh._ Dangerous train of thought.

The next pitch comes, a high ball to the inside, so close to his face that Jensen flinches back. 

“It's a fastball up and in and it is called a ball, obviously, but no hit by pitch. And now that we see Jensen Ackles settling back in the box, he seems to stand a bit to the outside. So that waste pitch was not wasted at all, even though it was just to tell Ackles to back off from crowding the plate.”

And Misha gets it. It's all mind games. Jensen keeps his distance, but he looks fierce. And hot.

Well, he can admit that much. There's a tight line to Jensen's eyes, his cheekbones highlighted by thick, black lines. The eyes that Misha knows are as green as the grass on the infield are glowing. Jensen lives for this, and it's clear to see. It's also damn attractive to see him in his element.

The pitcher winds up, and the ball hurls towards the plate. Jensen doesn't flinch this time, and since it is a ball, the third one, the reporter muses, “Ackles works the count up easily, one strike, three balls, and if Pierce doesn't want to walk him – and he surely does not want to see Ackles on first base, not one of the fastest guys on the base pass, not someone with his SBR – anyway, there needs to be a strike now, or Ackles goes to first with or without hitting.”

Tap, tap, swing, glare.

How Misha has never noticed the width of Jensen's shoulders, how square his neck is, the perfect A-line of his body.

If he were anyone else--

But he isn't.

The pitcher winds up, and Misha sees Jensen's foot, the one nearest to the pitcher, come off the ground, giving him leverage, and he pulls his bat against the ball, hits it hard. As the camera tracks it down the first base line, Jensen drops his bat and takes off running. 

And now Misha knows why the pitcher wouldn't want to have Jensen on base. He's so fast, even though the outfielder in right field catches the ball immediately and flips it back to the first baseman, Jensen is long through and safe, as per the umpire's sign. When the camera pans to him next, there's a wide grin on his lips, eyes alight, as he pulls off his gloves and shin guard to hand them off to a teammate.

Before the next batter steps in, there's a slow-motion shot of the hit, and Misha gets a good look at his swing. There is something aesthetically pleasing about it. The camera focus returns to Jensen joking with the Giants' first baseman as the reporter points out that they've known each other for years, having played on the same team for a while.

Well if the next batter takes as many pitches as Jensen had the pitcher make, then--

Misha barely gets time to register the whack of the bat, the way Jensen sprints for second base and right around to third. He outruns the shortstop who covers second and it's enough of a hassle for Ty Olsson, the batter, to reach first.

They've got the momentum on their side, and with Jensen in scoring position, the anticipation for the upcoming batters is high.

The commentator has talked himself into a frenzy and Misha does get most of it, surprising himself. “With runners on first and third and no outs for this inning, the Cardinals are in a fantastic situation to take control of this game right here. Up to bat is Alexander Calvert, in his second season in the big leagues, the rookie with a fielding expertise that has helped the Cardinals tremendously over the season. His batting average has steadily inclined, and though he is no Marder or Abel, he is not to be underestimated.”

There's a shot of Jensen on third, a long pause as he breathes deeply, in a wide stance, one foot off the bag, giving him a lead towards home. Misha wonders if he'll make it, and leaves his notepad forgotten on the coffee table.

***  
  
Jensen breathes. Sees that there is a camera pointed at him, the shot being repeated to the upper screen that has shown Alex' stats until a second ago. Now it's his face, and he looks to his right, to the camera currently live. 

It's a split-second decision as Alex walks up to the rising crescendo of the organ.

If the camera holds, it's most likely also the one broadcast right now.

Jensen looks straight at it, grins a breathless grin, and motions with his index and middle finger pointing at his eyes, then at the camera, an 'I can see you'. The crowd is cheering at that, amused, and the atmosphere in the stadium is crushing with its positivity. The energy pumping through the players and the fans is at an all-time high, and yet. They could and should get some insurance runs right here.

The baseball goddess is a fickle one, everything could turn within an inning. Which means that if there's even a slight chance that the ball will hit the infield, Jensen is going to run.

Alex steps up, takes a look at the first pitch, swings at the second, misses, and Jensen barely makes the jump back to third base before Williams is on his feet and throwing the ball to get him out. Needless to say, Williams isn't Rich, so where Rich would've nailed that throw to the third baseman, Jensen manages to reach the bag safely.

With that almost costing them a run, Alex hits the ball for a double, and Jensen hustles, but gets home with ease. Run 2 for the Cardinals, no outs, and Ty on third, Alex on second – the ball is rolling.

Jensen pumps his fist, skips back into the dugout, and jumps into a high five with Darius. Now that's how a game should start.

After Alex, there's Jared and Rich, and while they aren't their strongest hitters, they manage to get some hits in, even though Rich is out at first.

They bat in three more runs that inning and lead with a comfortable 5-0 by the time Seb strikes out and it's time to defend.

Jensen breathes. Next round, here they come.

***  
  
Misha pours himself another cup of tea after that nerve-wracking second inning.

The next three innings are very uneventful, as in, no runs for either team, and it seems like the Cardinals have settled for their lead and will advance.

Misha is happy for them, he is. But two more hours of this?

He yawns. Takes note of every time the camera is on the dugout, tries to find Darius and Jensen.

By the 6 th inning, it's still 5-0 and Misha is pretty sure they'll win this, anyway. 

He only ever watched the soccer world championship, and a 5 to nothing lead is almost impossible to come back from. Is it even worth it to watch the rest of the game?

Calvert catches a fly ball to left field for the first out.

The next batter gets on base with a single, which Misha has learned means a hit strong enough to get on first base or for the other runners to advance to the next base.

With one out and a runner on second, the Giant's next batter hits a home run off of Jared and as the camera follows them around the field, two points appear next to the Cardinals' 5. But the inning isn't over.

Jared hollers at his teammates - what, Misha doesn't know. They shout back at the mound.

***  
  
“Just two, Jare!” Ty shouts over. “You got this!”

“No runners!” Jensen adds, hits his fist into his glove. “Get 'em!”

Jared grins at them. “You bet!”

The next two outs have nothing to do with the fielders and everything to do with Jared's excellent control.

***  
  
There are no more points on the board, and Misha is, once again, very bored.

They all seem so capable, until a sharp grounder to third gets behind Abel's glove in the bottom of the 8 th inning and before anyone can so much as blink, the Giants have put three runs on the board and tied the score.

Misha finds himself bouncing his feet, watching every play. This might mean Jensen having to play tomorrow instead of coming to his fundraiser. This might mean a lot.

In the top of the 9 th , Cohen manages a single home run with no runners on base. It's a lead, though a small one. The next two outs are brutal, the closing pitcher of the Giants throwing pitches hard and breaking incredibly at the plate. Darius strikes out, Jensen strikes out and both head back towards their dugout with a frustrated snarl.

“How does anybody hit anything, ever,” Misha mutters to himself at the replay. There's some newfound respect for his best friend. And whatever Jensen is to him.

Bottom of the 9 th doesn't go too well for them. Jared walks the first batter and gets substituted by a pitcher Misha hasn't seen or heard of before. His name is Chad Lindberg and with him, Richard Speight, their catcher, also heads off the field.

“And onto the field steps the designated catcher for Lindberg, Rob Benedict. How 'bout that, we do get to see the knuckleballer for this game, after all – though I'd have loved to see Padalecki pitch a full game. His control wasn't wavering throughout this game, not even once, not even after he gave up two runs in the 6th, but a pitch count that high is a reason.”

Chad walks the second batter, so with two runners on first and second and no outs, that one run on the scoreboard seems like nothing.

Misha admittedly is at the edge of his seat.

The third batter strikes out.

Two more outs.

The next one hits a grounder in the infield straight to Darius, who makes the executive decision to throw to first and get him out.

“Fielder's choice,” the reporter says. “An out is an out and second base was too far away, the runner on third was already safe, so I think Marder did the right thing here, though let's see if it comes to bite them. With two runners in scoring position, this could cost the Cardinals the game.”

After a duel with the pitcher and running up the count to a full 3 balls and 2 strikes, the last batter fouls off one ball after the other. The team gets twitchy. Jensen is pacing and Misha sees it. 

He knows as much as anyone that this play is what will make or break the game.

***  
  
Jensen is hyperfocused. His senses on high alert as he is low on the balls of his feet, cleats digging into the dirt, ready to sprint, ready to jump. Everything unimportant is off his mind – the smell of fresh grass and sweat vanishes, blurs together with the white noise from the stands.

The possibilities rush through his mind all at once. No matter what happens, and whatever happens, it could be the next pitch, if it's not a strike to end the game. With the count full, Chad has to go for a strike, or he might just walk the batter. After him, though, the line-up starts again with their lead-off, naturally a guy that makes good soft contact, able to move the runners forward.

It doesn't matter if there's two runners on base or all bases loaded. If the runner from third comes home, the game is tied. They can get the win here and now, but they need an out with the next play, preferably. It only becomes harder if Chad walks the guy on a full count.

When it comes, it's a split-second decision.

Jensen's feet move before his mind does. There's the whack of a broken bat, a ball hurling towards his position.

Two steps, one step, and Jensen jumps high, plucking the ball out of mid-air. Steps on the third base bag that the runner just vacated, and he feels the runner from second breathing down his back. He knows he doesn't need to. If the runner from second is out, and he probably is even though it's close, the inning is over. But he won't make the mistake of taking this for granted. 

He lobs himself into mid-air again, grabs the ball from his glove and throws it back home to Rob with all his power, swings his arm all the way through. It doesn't even bounce before the satisfying smack of leather on leather tells him it hit its target, Rob's mitt, dead-on. There's a bit of a tussle at the plate, but right as Jensen catches himself, cleats digging into the dirt, knee hitting the ground hard, he sees the home plate umpire pump his fist.

Out at home plate.

The Giants didn't score any runs.

And with 5 to 6, the Cardinals win the NLCS.

As soon as the realization hits, the dugout empties, and the whole team meets at home plate, jumping and celebrating. Jensen gets a bucket of Gatorade emptied over his head, finds himself in a pile under Jared's weight with Darius' arms around his middle. Someone claps his ass. He can't stop grinning and cheering.

“We're going to the World Series!” someone shouts. It's too loud, Jensen has no idea who it is. The stadium is roaring.

There's nothing, nothing like this feeling.

Somewhere in his mind, a tiny voice is very, very pleased that this is the game he made Misha watch.

***  
  
“They did it! The Cardinals are going to the World Series! And what a game, what a finish. Pure athleticism on the part of shortstop Jensen Ackles – not only getting the force out at third all by himself, but making a bullseye throw back home and into Benedict's mitt, what a play, what a throw!”

They go to a slow-motion video of the play. Jensen is on his feet, flying towards the trajectory of the ball right as it comes off the bat, jumps higher than necessary and with a graceful step and his lips pinched, the ball leaves his hand in seconds again. It's a blink and you miss it play.

Misha is, admittedly, in awe.

Not at Jensen in particular, or so he tells himself. No, at baseball, as a game.

And he gets it now, he thinks. Gets why this game can be boring at times, but a few split seconds can be mind-blowing.

When he picks up his mug, he finds his tea having gone cold.

Then he picks up his phone, remembers that Jensen will call him when he can – he probably has to do interviews and a press conference and, you know, a shower, before he is halfway to his phone – not to mention that Misha is probably not the only one texting him.

It takes Misha the better part of twenty minutes and ten rewrites to even send him a message.

_Congrats, show-off,_ is what he sends, in the end. They'll talk, later, and Misha is actually, truly, honestly looking forward to it, but there's nothing like some friendly teasing.

He twiddles his thumbs for a bit, watches the post-game interview with Jared, whose good mood is so catchy it has the reporter in shambles. He even watches the press conference where absolutely nothing is said except everything you would expect. That they are thankful, looking forward to the World Series, let's see who wins the ALCS, which is apparently the other division they will play against. It's going to be the Rays or the Phillies, from what Misha gathers. 

Jensen even attends the press conference, fresh from a quick shower and hair still wet, curling into his forehead. That's a... look.

He doesn't get to say much. When asked about his unnecessary double out in the ninth, he laughs an awkward laugh and Misha is acutely reminded what an arrogant asshole he can be. Truly a show-off. And he's happy that their team had a big win today, so Misha is half forgiving, but only half. “Well,” Jensen says. “I wanted to be sure that there wasn't even a single more run. I know it wasn't necessary, per se, but better safe than sorry. Thank you.”

He's smug, chin held high.

Misha rolls his eyes.

When his cell phone rings half an hour later, he answers it with, “Hi there, big shot.”

“Good evening to you too, Misha,” Jensen chuckles, warm in the back of his throat, and it could be so easy, it could be just that.

Misha feels a mixture of heat boil low in his gut, equal parts dread and danger and attraction and denial.

“Nice wink in the second,” Misha says.

“So you did watch the game,” Jensen sounds pleased and entirely, _entirely_ too full of himself.

“We had a deal, right?”

“We did. How did you like the game?”

Misha can't help but smile. “I think I get why you love baseball so much. Even though I was a bit bored during the middle part.”

“Yeah, you can never take a lead for granted. If the other team gets the momentum going, it can be over in an inning.”

Misha nods, more to himself. “And I meant it. Nice play there.”

“Thanks,” Jensen says, sobering, like he sorts out his thoughts to say something, ask something. “You wanna come out with us, celebrate a bit?”

“No, I don't think--”

“Promise, that party last time was not how this usually goes down, we went way overboard there. Just dinner and a few drinks and you'll be home by 3 a.m. because we're all beat, anyway.”

“No, thank you,” Misha declines, voice firm, and he tries to ignore the disappointed huff on the other end of the line. “I have a speech to prepare for a fundraiser that, according to our deal, you'll be attending, too.”

“There a dress code?”

“Suit or tux always works. Remember, you'll just have to look pretty.”

“Oh, I'll make sure to remind you of that,” Jensen says, a promise, a threat, a growl so low in his throat that it has Misha's hair stand on end and his stomach in knots.

Talk about things he did not expect.

_Arrogant. Full of himself. Shallow. A jock._

Talk about things he shouldn't want. Somebody should go inform his dick of that.

“What color is your tie?” Jensen wants to know.

“Blue,” Misha says. It's mostly blue, for him. He's not too sure about his choices in clothes, most of the time, and a few missteps made him realize the hard way that blue always works, for him, because it compliments his eyes. Or so people have been telling him.

“Black suit?”

“Dark blue one, white shirt.”

“Yeah, I can see that working for you. Alrighty. What about your date?”

Misha does a double take. “I don't have a date.”

“Oh, c'mon. Like you don't have a girl. Even just for things like that.”

“I don't.”

“And what, not presenting a first lady to the people? And you wanna be mayor?” Jensen is teasing, tone light-hearted, but his snark hits right where it counts.

Misha huffs, put-out. “Yeah, so? Nothing wrong with being single.”

“You know, if you want to present them with a first gentlemen, I could always pretend--”

“I won't lie to the people I want to vote for me.”

“Aren't you, anyway?”

Misha snaps his mouth shut, ponders, tries to take it at face value, no matter how hard it hits. “Does it matter?” he asks. “I can just, not date, while I'm in office.”

“If you want to deny who you are for your whole term – or terms, plural - as mayor, well.” It's snippy and unnecessary and really, talk about throwing stones while sitting in a glass house.

Misha grumbles. “Says the guy so deep in the closet he has to wait for retirement – but hey, maybe you have some tips and tricks on how to have an active sex life despite that? You certainly have the experience.”

“Yeah, alright, let's not talk about that,” Jensen deflects. “I'm in too good of a mood for you to ruin it. I guess I shouldn't have brought it up.”

Misha quirks an eyebrow.  _Hear, hear._

“Don't get too drunk, you can have all the champagne at the fundraiser tomorrow,” Misha reminds him.

“Text me the details.”

“Will do.”

“Looking forward to a phony speech,” Jensen snarks, and Misha can't place his tone. There's sarcasm, definitely, but also a jab at him that isn't entirely non-malicious. It's revenge for his outburst. 

It's a reminder that while Jensen and him might face similar problems about living closeted for an indefinite time, they also live in completely different worlds.

“Have fun celebrating, dickhead,” Misha retorts.

“Night,” Jensen answers, tersely, and hangs up on him.

That phone call was not quite what Misha expected. He taps his phone against his chin, then goes to get his laptop. He has a speech to prepare, no matter the fact that green eyes haunt him all evening.

Later, Darius texts him a picture with the caption,  _Loverboy says Hi_ .

It's Jensen, drink in his hand, blowing a kiss at the camera.

Misha doesn't answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so that was _a lot_ of actual baseball being played. I hope I didn't lose you in the middle there. But if Misha managed to hang on, I hope, so did you. Let me know! 
> 
> Next chapter: fundraiser and dressed up Jensen. Poor Misha.


End file.
